


The Warrior and the Intern

by Unified Multiversal Theory (nightgigjo)



Series: Fanfiction is a Gift [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coffee, Darcy is a lesbian, Darcyland, Darcyland Secret Santa 2016, F/F, Matchmaker EVERYBODY, Matchmaker Jane Foster, Matchmaker Thor, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Sif probably is too, including a special cameo by a certain coffee-stealing Avenger, liquid courage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8861812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightgigjo/pseuds/Unified%20Multiversal%20Theory
Summary: Darcy has a huuuuuuuuuuge crush on a Certain Asgardian Warrior, and all the Midgardian badassery in the world wouldn’t be enough to catch her attention...or so she thinks. Lucky for the both of them, their confidants actually talk to each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tokyo_the_Glaive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/gifts).



Darcy Lewis is, let’s face it, Not Shy.  When, at her internship interview, she rattled off a complete catalog of her skills and accomplishments, she threw in “Cunning Linguist” -- partly to see if Jane caught it, and partly to see if it caught Jane. (One: she did, and two: it didn’t.) It’s not like she didn’t make sure to wear as much of the Lesbian Here! Uniform as she could, complete with big baggy flannels, trompy boots and super comfy jeans.

She had been blessed with open-minded parents living in the highly permissible Pacific Northwest, who had always supported her every step of the way from “maybe I’m not straight” to “nope, DEFINITELY not,” with barely a blink or a blush. She’d been having crushes on women since she was a girl having crushes on girls, and although she had been hesitant while she was figuring herself out, that had been ages ago, and by now she had more than mastered the art of “gee, you’re cute, wanna go make out or something?”

Granted, she’d not had much of love-life lately, but that was something most people put off when they were fighting to save the world. (Even Thor and Jane did, and if they weren’t the most _enthusiastic_ couple she’d ever met, she’d eat Thor’s helmet.) So what if she wasn’t jumping in the sack right now? I mean, it’s not like she didn’t think Earth girls were hot anymore. It wasn’t like having a crush on a Certain Asgardian Hottie was stopping her from flirting with…

 _Shit_. It totally _was_.

Darcy slumped over the back of her office chair in utter dejection. “Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaane,” she whined, as she spun listlessly around to where her boss/bestie was completely immersed in her work, “I am so _screwed_.”

“How precisely are you screwed?” Jane replied vaguely, eyes never leaving the calculations she was scribbling.

“Uuuugh, Jane, why?” Darcy wailed. “Why do I have to be so stinking celibate just because I’m in love with a freaking goddess?”

“So you’re _not_ screwed,” Jane commented blandly, without so much as an upward glance.

Darcy slumped over her desk, covering her head with her arms. “Dammit, Jane, you know what I mean,” she mumbled from under a mound of sweater sleeve.

“You should talk to her,” the scientist muttered, leaning over to make a few adjustments on whatever-the-hell it was she was building this time.

The force of her eye-roll spun Darcy around to face her so-called best friend. “Like I can just call her up, Jane,” she scoffed. “I mean, I’m _good_ , but even I haven’t quite figured out how to get cell reception in Asgard.”

With a grunt, Jane hauled the astonished intern out of her chair, and woman-handled her until she was standing in front of a contraption with too many wires and too few labels. “Well,” Jane replied, breathing hard from the physical exertion, “now you can.”

Darcy stared from the tiny scientist  to the strange metal box and back again. “Hold on, what?” she demanded sharply.

“It utilizes the basic frequency of the Einstein-Rosen bridge to…” she began, but Darcy wasn’t going to stand for this kind of long-winded explanation.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Jane,” she huffed, “just say ‘[tech]’ and tell me what it does.”

Jane grumbled, but mercifully skipped the rest of the gobbledygook. “It uses the Bifrost to relay short transmissions between here and Asgard.”

“You created intergalactic text messaging,” Darcy deadpanned, “just so I could hook up with the warrior-woman of my dreams?”

“It’s more like interstellar voicemail at this stage,” she corrected, “but no. This is still a SHIELD project, so that the next time Earth is in trouble, we can alert Asgard without waiting for them to notice it,” Jane explained, voice perfectly strict and professional. “But,” she continued with a sly hint of a smile, “come to think of it, I do have a perfectly good boyfriend who would be more than willing to help me test it. And we should make certain it works with more than one sender or recipient,” she continued thoughtfully. “After all, I do need data in order to present any reliable findings.”

Darcy tried to resist, but Jane just set her firmly down in her own chair, before pressing a complicated series of equations into the keypad on the newly-christened Cosmic Hookup Machine. There was no arguing with Jane when she was in the throes of Science!™.

• • • – – – • • •

Mere minutes after receiving the summons, Thor strode purposefully into the Bifrost chamber. As always, its guardian stood solemnly at attention, although as the prince neared, he could see the slight crinkle at the corner of Heimdall’s eye which told him the news was good, and not of grave import.

“Greetings, Friend Heimdall,” Thor boomed, clapping the stolid man on the shoulder, “what news have you this day?”

“Not news, but a message,” the dark-skinned man returned, and his golden eyes glinted a bit more warmly than usual when he spoke. “It is from Midgard.”

“A message?” Thor’s easy manner brightened even more, a grin spreading across his amiable face. “Has the Lady Jane succeeded in her quest?”

“She has,” Heimdall confirmed. “I received a message from her, stating that she and the Lady Darcy would wish to converse with you one quarter-hour from the time of the first message. She is not certain how quickly the Bifrost carries her messages here, and is eager to test it.”

Thor’s smile turned distinctly fond. “And I shall be glad to assist. Did she say aught else?”

Here Heimdall’s eye-crinkle was joined by a secret smile. “Only that, if the Lady Sif were able to join you, her presence would be most welcome.”

“And you know better than I that she cannot,” the prince responded with a curious look, “not until she returns from assisting the Vanir with the incursion from Muspelheim.”

“As you will certainly tell them,” the guardian replied easily, his eyes shifting to the bright metallic gold of farsight. “They are preparing,” he said faintly, as from a greater distance than across the small chamber. “Make ready.”

To Thor’s astonished delight, a full image appeared on the dais in front of them, in the place where those arriving via the Bifrost would first step upon exiting the bridge. It was nearly solid, a vision of his Jane and her boon companion, sitting in front of a rather untidy desk in their lab in Stark’s Tower. The color was dim, but the image was clear. Jane’s bright eyes were shining with the thrill of new discovery, and her mouth was moving, but there was as yet no sound. Thor scowled, but before he could question his lady on this oddity, her voice, magnified and slightly warped, came crackling out of the Bifrost.

“I see them, but I can’t hear anything. There must be a sound delay,” Jane’s voice sounded, although she had already halfway disappeared under the table upon which her invention must have been sitting. Darcy’s image nodded, reaching for a tool and handing it down to Jane, seemingly by request. “There,” Jane said, “just hand me the Phillips,” and immediately her face came back into view, strands of hair now flying free of the confines of her hair band.

Her mouth moved again in a single word, eyes darting as though reading something in front of her, then the word came. “Wait,” she said, hand resting gently on Darcy’s shoulder as though holding her back from some action. With the other hand she tapped, and soon the sound of her fingertip on the hard surface of the desk resounded in time, or nearly in time, with the movement. “I think this is the best we’re going to get at the moment,” she said, and this time she could be both seen and heard. “Thor, Heimdall,” she beamed with equal parts pleasure and pride, “greetings from Earth.”

“Lady Jane,” Thor’s voice resounded again, as proud of Jane’s accomplishment as she was herself. “You have completed your task! How fare you and the Lady Darcy?”

Jane blushed prettily, but Darcy made a rather inelegant noise. “We’re fine, thank you,” Jane replied, before turning to the guardian of the bridge. “How was the delay, Heimdall? Very long at all?”

Heimdall shook his head gravely. “Nay, my lady,” he replied simply. “Mere moments only. Your calculations were quite on their mark.”

“I am more than delighted to speak with you, my dearest Jane,” Thor interjected, “but I am curious. My presence at these proceedings I understand thoroughly, but why did you also request the Lady Sif?”

To this inquiry, his lady gave a secret smile of her own, but it was Darcy’s turn to flush red. “It would have been good to see her,” she said, “and I quite like her, you know.” Although her eyes were fixed on him, he could have sworn this last was addressed not to him, but to her companion in the lab. His eyes flicked over to the Lady Darcy, who was indeed sinking a bit lower in her chair, her expression one of slight embarrassment.

Thor was uncertain how glad she would be to hear these tidings, and so he watched his shield-sister closely while he delivered them. “The Lady Sif is, alas, unable to attend. She answered the call of Vanaheim for aid, and is valiantly defending them from a threat at their borders.” If it were possible, Darcy sank even lower in her chair, although her expression now held admiration as well. _Ah_ , he thought to himself. _That is how it stands with her._

“Oh, well,” his lady responded, the twinkle never fading from her eye. “Please give her our best, and congratulate her on her victory when she returns.”

“I shall indeed,” he returned sincerely. As conversation turned to other things, his mind remained on this new development. He determined he would inquire of Sif himself on this matter, although he would be more politic than to divulge the Lady Darcy’s interest in his long-time friend and shield-companion. It would perhaps be a kindness, to both of these fierce women, whom he had long since taken into his heart as sisters.

• • • – – – • • •

News of their victory over the invading forces of Muspelheim reached Asgard nearly before Sif and her company of soldiers had finished cleaning their swords on the grassy fields of Vanaheim.  The moment she stepped out of the Bifrost, the prince himself was there to meet her, and Sif was glad. She grinned when she saw him, and Thor clasped her arm heartily the moment she stepped off the dais, still covered with the grime of battle. He was unusually solemn, but Sif did not ask about that; if his worries concerned her, she would know of them soon enough.

They gave a great feast in her honor that evening, and one that she would long remember, though not for the excellent food and drink, nor for the skald who sang the tale of their battle. It was Thor’s quiet concern that struck her, and before they had all lost themselves in their cups, the prince had laid a gentle, almost tender hand on her shoulder, and beckoned her to walk with him outside of the noisy hall.

The sun had long since set, and the night air was waxing cool in the deep of the night. They walked out to a balcony from which one could see nearly all of Asgard, all the way down to Heimdall’s watchpost on the Rainbow Bridge. Thor’s brow was furrowed in the middle, as though contemplating a difficult problem. They leant on the railing together as they used, once when they had been little more than children, and the torchlight flickered on their faces.

It reminded her, unaccountably, of the afternoon she had told him of her desire to be a warrior, to follow their way instead of the usual paths that women took, of healing, scholarship, or running a household and bearing children. She had been the solemn one then, and the prince had laughed at first, not at her request for aid, but that she had been afraid to ask him for it. He had called her fearless, and then challenged his father’s best warrior in single combat for the chance for her to join them. She was never quite decided if Volstagg had let Thor win, for Volstagg it had been whom the prince had fought, but she had been admitted to the warriors’ ranks on that day, and had been ferociously loyal to Thor thereafter.

A number of people had talked of them as a match, but she made it quite clear that she had no interest in mothering the next generation of royalty, but rather in providing the defense of the current one. Then Thor had been banished to Midgard and met the Lady Jane, and all talk of such a coupling between her and the prince had been banished even out of backroom gossip.

Sif wondered what could be troubling him so now. As if in reply to her thoughts, Thor came out of his reverie, turned to her and spoke. “Sif,” he said, in a tone far more hushed than he habitually used, “are you happy?”

Surprise and dismay must have shown on her face, for before she could reply, he spoke again to assuage her fears. “Nay, I am not bringing that old suit again, never fear,” he said, for her terror must have been plain. “I am still bound to the Lady Jane, and there I shall remain. But my happiness makes me concerned for the happiness of my fellows, of whom you are one of the closest.”

His earnestness was disarming, as always, though she had never found it charming enough to swoon over, as most other court ladies had. “I have the honor of defending my country and my king,” she said, as she always did, “and the fellowship of my companions in battle. What more should I need to be content?”

“I speak of happiness, shield-sister,” Thor retorted, not unkindly. “Contentment is well, but have you naught else in your life than just fulfillment of purpose?” His expression was grave, far more like Odin’s than perhaps he knew. “I thought I had all that could be desired before my journey to Midgard, and there I found such a lightness, a joy I had not known I lacked,” he said, eyes trained on the Bifrost Chamber in the distance. When he turned again towards her, Thor’s eyes were full of a hopeful curiosity. “I should like to see you, Sif, as happily paired as I, should such a thing be your wish.”

Sif’s dark brows creased in the dim light, forcing down the thoughts she had thought sunk to the depths of her mind long since, for part of Thor’s journey had been hers as well. “I do not wish to give up my life to be a bride. I would make a poor one, Thor, as well you know,” she said finally, voice weary with the ancient argument, resurrected after what she’d hoped had been its peaceful and permanent death. “I would not wish my wifely attendance on any man. If I have not found a companion on the battlefield before this day, then there is very little chance that such a man exists.”

Although his face remained solemn, Sif thought she caught a twinkle in Thor’s eye at this last. “Sif,” he said slowly, measuring his words with care, “have I yet tonight spoken of a man?”

“No, but,” she stammered, “there are, surely, there are none such on Asgard, else I…”

His interruption was softer, kinder still. “And did I speak of Asgard?”

Panic-stricken, Sif found her eyes were drawn towards the golden point in the distance from which Heimdall watched all. Thor followed her gaze, and the soft smile that had been threatening to break through his solemn performance dawned slowly across his face. “You have also visited Midgard,” Thor said in a low rumble, and the gleam in his eyes danced merrily, and he turned towards her, taking both of her forearms gently in his hands. “Dearer than sister, I can no longer plod mysteriously along as my father would. I have tried to emulate him, to let you find your own way, but alas, I have not his patience.” His face was level with hers, eyes radiating joyful hope. “If you were to seek companionship on Midgard,” he offered, “I believe you would find it.”

Sif’s hands gripped his arms as well, although whether to show strength or to gain it, she could not quite decide herself. “I…” she began, but her throat constricted to prevent any admission she might make that was too near her heart. “Thank you,” she managed finally, although the pit of her stomach was in knots at the thought of acting on his suggestion. One person had caught her attention on Midgard, in the very few moments that had not been filled with distracting Loki’s Destroyer. The hesitation to even speak had been on Sif since the beginning, and it was so near to fear that she had refused to acknowledge the reaction. She was a warrior, above all: why should such a small thing be allowed to cow her, when she had faced any number of rampaging foes with courage to spare, but she had long before proven her prowess with sword and dagger, and her skill had never yet failed her. But when she saw that Midgardian -- diminutive even for her race, and obviously unused to combat -- stand up to defend her own despite quaking in fear of their opponent, Sif had seen true courage, and been ashamed.

Since that day she had thrown herself into any conflict that presented itself, earning accolades for every assault on an enemy fortress, each victory more song-worthy than the last, being awarded command over her own troop of soldiers on the merit of her deeds. And yet the same pit gnawed at her now as then, that all her achievements were cheapened because they came so easily. There was no task, no quest she could set herself, she was certain, that would allow her to earn the right to even approach such a one.

What shone through her eyes while she thought these things, Sif never knew. As Thor watched her, his eyes began to take on their previously solemn expression, although it could also have been a note of sadness. Eventually he shook off the mood and, after clasping her on the shoulders like a brother, led her back into the hall of feasting.

They drank together until dawn had nearly come upon them. The last thing Sif remembered was Thor dragging her to her feet, himself somewhat unsteady, and walking her out of the empty hall into the barest hint of morning light.

• • • – – – • • •

Sif woke to a gentle, practised touch on her forehead. Automatically she sat up, hand reaching to her belt for a blade that wasn’t there. As her head spun from the swift motion, she clamped her eyes shut again. From a few feet away, she heard a smooth, female voice say, “Your weapons are over here. When you can walk across the room for them, you can have them back.”

Once the pounding behind her temples began to subside, Sif cautiously pried open one eye. Sitting on an odd metal chair across from her was a slender woman with deep red hair and a supercilious smile. Unlike the other Midgardians she had met on her first (and only) visit on their planet, this one was not an untrained civilian. She held herself perfectly still, with a level of control Sif had rarely seen, and when she did move, it was with an economy of motion of a sword-master, or a predatory animal. Her motions were completely non-threatening, but their underlying power warned that threat could be imminent, if warranted.

The woman’s smile lost a bit of its superiority as she watched Sif sizing her up. “Good,” she purred, and with an almost imperceptible nod, she dissipated the tension in the room. “You had a bit of a rough night,” the woman said, “but we have a cure for that.” The woman’s smile had disappeared entirely now, leaving a calm professionalism. “Get dressed, and I’ll take you to it,” came the terse command.

Having no other idea what to do, Sif rose, if a bit stiffly, from the unfamiliar bed. She was, thankfully, still dressed in her tunic and hose, having apparently only removed her leather gear the night before. She found the rest of her attire laid out on a similar metal chair at the foot of the bed, and her sword standing neatly in a corner, safe in its scabbard. Without a word, Sif dressed quickly, departing the chamber as she clasped the sword belt at its customary place around her hip.

The red-haired woman was waiting for her there, and she gave another curt nod before turning on her heel and pacing swiftly down the corridor. Sif followed her easily, and after two or three turns, found herself in a larger room, one obviously designed as a gathering space. The lights were brighter in here, an almost pure white, and most of the fixtures on the walls were made of metal. Thor was standing in the middle of the room, wearing Midgardian clothing under a large red smock emblazoned with the words “Kiss the Cook”. He had a flat cooking implement in one hand, and a large steaming mug in the other. He was standing over a sizzling pan, and the smell of smoked meat was rising from it.

When he saw her, Thor immediately broke out into a grin, and offered her the mug.

“Drink this,” was all he said.

Sif took the beverage with both hands, and, savoring the warmth on her palms, took a deep breath and a cautious sip. The stuff was nearly black, and highly fragrant, and bitter to the taste. Almost as soon as the substance passed her lips, she felt an enlivening of her spirit and her wits, and her heart began to beat the least bit faster. The effect was intriguing.

“And have you breakfasted, Lady Natasha?” Thor inquired of the woman who had led her there. The woman -- named Natasha, apparently -- nodded in the affirmative, but helped herself to a cup of the black beverage anyway, and sat down at the table off to the side. Sif followed the woman’s lead and sat across from her, on the side nearest to Thor.

“Your coffee,” Thor asked, “do you like it?” So that’s what this stuff was called. “It cures many ills, including an aching head after a long revel.”

 _The feast._ So that’s why she felt so wretched. “It is...effective,” Sif said at last, before taking another, larger gulp of the cooling coffee. She looked up at Natasha across from her, who was likewise savoring the beverage. “I believe I like this better than ale,” Sif commented, becoming gradually aware that she was clutching the cup rather close to her chest, as though she were worried someone might take it from her.

Sif glanced at the woman Natasha, whose posture mirrored her own, although that sly little smile had returned. “You’re right to guard your coffee,” Natasha smiled into her cup, “around here, at least.”

Suddenly there appeared before Sif a large platter, filled with food: strips of meat, fried eggs, toasted slices of bread. Thor looked down at her, beaming. “This will help, too,” he said, setting down a fork and blunt knife next to her plate. “The Lady Darcy says it is the best hangover cure on Midgard.”

Sif nearly choked on the mouthful of toast she had just taken. Faster than thought, the red-haired woman was at her back, hand at the ready, should she need a good thwack to dislodge the food in her throat. When she gave a solid cough, followed by a decent enough breath, she felt Natasha’s posture ease, and the woman leaned over the edge of the table to look Sif in the face. A quirk of Natasha’s eyebrow somehow communicated volumes to her: surprise, reassessment, approval. Just as swiftly she was back in her chair, leaning against its back, head cocked slightly upwards in appraisal. She said no word, but Sif was certain as anything that this woman had discerned her secret with no difficulty at all.  
  
“Will the Lady Jane be joining us?” Sif inquired. As a cover it was fairly weak, but no one questioned it.

“Nay,” Thor replied easily, “she has long since risen and gone to the lab. She and Darcy had their meal and departed some hours hence.” He ambled over with another platter twice as large as her own, and sat down in the chair at the head of the small table, between the two women. “As much as I would like to spend all my time with my lady,” he said, piling eggs high on a slice of toast, “she must attend to Science. If she were to spend all her time with me, she would cease being the woman I love,” he added with a small shrug, before shoveling the toast into his mouth. “Besides,” he continued after swallowing the bite, “I now have time to assist you with your quest, my friend.”

A look of befuddlement passed across Sif’s face. “My quest?” she stammered, unnerved. “What quest?”

Thor just grinned. “Why, your lover’s conquest, of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing to say. “Your courage was quite high yestereve, when we made our way to Midgard. Although we were well into our cups, your intent was quite clear. Father could not but approve our journey.”

Sif blanched, her heart falling into her shame-filled gullet. “The...the king knows of...of my...of this _quest_?”

Thor laid a gentle (if slightly greasy) hand on her forearm. “The object of your quest he does not know,” he comforted, “or I have not at least told him. I did obtain his permission to come to Midgard because of Jane’s new machine.” He grinned broadly. “You were to accompany me, to ensure relations between our two worlds are not limited to those between Jane and myself.”

Natasha made a quiet yet distinct snorting noise, but Sif looked into the face of her prince and scowled. His grin was, if possible, even broader now, with hints of mischief at the corners. He looked like a little boy who thought he’d gotten away with a vulgar joke, and he had been no more covert about it than a child, either. “Tell me,” Sif growled into her plate, “is there a single soul in any of the Nine Realms who knows less about this than I do?”

Perhaps sensing her impending ire, Thor’s mood turned serious again. “Truly, I have told no one,” he said, all earnestness once more, “who did not already see it for themselves. You cannot imagine the Allfather does not perceive the desires of all his champions, least of all his most accomplished?”

At this Sif startled enough to look Thor in the face again, this time in wonder. “Truly,” she asked, “does the king consider me so?”

The prince nodded gravely. “Odin does not award accolades where they are undeserved, and you have distinguished yourself of late.” His face grew quiet, voice falling to a whisper. “That this change came about after you came to Midgard to retrieve me did not go unnoticed.”

At this small word, the pieces that she had felt falling about her snapped suddenly into place. The heroic tales she had heard all of her life, of daring deeds done to win a lady’s favor, were all told in precisely this way: that the lady should inspire the hero to be better than he was. She - at a glance, she had _known_ \- that she could be more - _should_ be more. And Sif would. For _her_.

The resolve must have shown on her face, for Thor’s smile again lit the room. “Excellent,” he said, reaching across to the coffee pot, and refilling each of their cups.  He raised his in a toast, and Sif and Natasha followed his lead. “To victory!” he bellowed, and they all downed the contents to the very dregs.

• • • – – – • • •

There was literally no reason for Darcy to be in the lab At All, and yet Jane had required her presence at butt-o’-clock in the morning, for some ungodly reason. Three hours of sleep did not a coherent Darcy make, but the boss lady had bribed her with coffee, and like a good little intern, she had crawled out of the bed, thrown on some clothes and followed. No sooner had they rounded the corner into the kitchen, than the groggy, bespectacled Darcy had seen the reason for her boss’s erratic behavior: Thor Odinson, in all his sun-bleached, muscular glory, had shown up, apparently in the middle of the night, and had found his sciencey girlfriend already awake.

Darcy had seated herself at the little dinette table and drunk the proffered coffee, thanking little green apples that she’d worn earplugs the night before. It had likely been the only thing that had saved her sleep (and resulting sanity) from Thor and Jane’s enthusiastic reunion. Nothing against her bestie or her godly boyfriend, but hearing them get theirs while she did without was nowhere near her top ten.

After her second cup and a toaster pastry (sugar for too little sleep, hangover breakfast for actual hangovers), something registered in her mind from their walk down the hall: the Black Widow had been sleeping outside her own door. Instantly curious, Darcy stood abruptly and headed straight for Natasha. The woman wasn’t asleep at all (God, did that woman ever sleep?) but was resting comfortably (how?) on one of those shitty conference room chairs, the ones SHIELD probably put in interrogation rooms when they had to question people they _really_ hate.

Agent Romanov’s expression didn’t even flicker when Darcy strode up to her, finger already extended in prime poking position, although she definitely had the presence of mind not to point just below the woman’s collarbone, and not directly at her breasts (Darcy liked her hands where she could use them). “What!?” she demanded, without further elaboration.

Natasha’s mouth quirked in that funny little smirk of hers. “Guest,” was her instant reply.

“Okay, but,” Darcy protested, but she spun around at the sound of feet behind her, whirling to face Jane coming up the passageway, Thor hot on her heels.

And then they had explained exactly who was in Natasha’s bed.

And then Darcy had simultaneously exploded at them and collapsed into a ball of nerves. “Holyshitohshitohshitdoubletripleshit,” she began, hurling invective at the universe and her interfering so-called friends _and_ casting aspersions on Natasha’s parentage, all because of who was currently located in Natasha’s bed.

Then Jane had dragged her upstairs to the lab and sat her down in front of a computer and commanded her to chill the f--- out, and once Darcy had vented enough about the unfairness of everything, had managed to chill the f--- out. Now she was jittering through her fifth cup of shitty lab coffee and trying not to have a nervous breakdown.

Jane was, amazingly, only half-working, mostly paying attention to Darcy’s occasional outbursts and minor panics. “OMG, Janey, what am I going to do?” she wailed. “It’s Stark freaking Tower, it’s not like I’m going to get out without being _seen._ And the _Black Widow_ is in on it. I mean, I can’t even run off and join the circus or flee the country! She’d just find me and drag me back in a quinjet and _make me talk to her_.”

Jane settled a calloused hand on Darcy’s knee. “Isn’t the point of liking Sif wanting to talk to her?” she asked.

“Ugh, you have a boyfriend, you don’t understand,” Darcy scoffed.

Jane was undeterred. “Isn’t the point for you to have a…”

Darcy covered her face with her hands. “If I talk to her, will you stop using reason at me?” she moaned through her fingers.

“Yes,” Jane replied stoutly.

“And if I don’t?” Darcy inquired, peeking through her hands at Jane.

“Then I won’t,” she said simply. “And Thor will do the puppy-dog eyes.”

“God, Jane, that’s like the divorce trump card,” Darcy complained, no longer hiding under her own hands. “You can’t just threaten that and not mean it.”

The diminutive scientist raised an eyebrow.

“Holy shit,” Darcy breathed, sobering suddenly, “you’re serious about this.”

“Yes, I am,” Jane replied, taking the seat next to Darcy and wrapping a slender arm around her shoulders. “You are my friend and you deserve to be happy, not pining away forever.”

Darcy slumped against her friend, and their heads rested against each other. “It’s just, God, Jane, it’s never been this hard to talk to anyone before,” she sighed. “I’m scared...I don’t even know _why_ I’m so scared, I’m just _scared_. She’s so perfect and I’m so...”

“You’re fine, Darcy,” Jane returned. “Sif might look perfect, but she’s not. Asgardian or not,” she said, “she’s only human.”

Darcy opened her mouth to protest, but Jane held up her hand. “Yes, she is,” Jane retorted, “just like Thor is human. We’re fallible,” she mused, her eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance, “and none of us know what we need until we have it.”

Darcy turned to look at her friend now, half expecting some other nugget of wisdom to fall out of her mouth, but Jane just smiled. “You give yourself a chance,” she said. “Even with half a chance, you’ll find out if she’s good for you or not. Don’t worry, Darcy,” she replied to her friend’s skeptical expression, “just go up to her and be yourself. You’ll be better than fine.”

“I guess,” Darcy muttered, as her head came to rest once more on Jane’s shoulder. They sat that way for a little while, until Darcy sat up again, gently shoulder-checking her boss-lady best friend. Jane bumped her back, and after the exchange of encouraging and encouraged grins, they got up and got on with the production of Science!™

• • • – – – • • •

It wasn’t long before they encountered each other.

By some chance, they were alone when it happened; Jane and Thor were off doing their own thing, while Natasha and the rest of the Avengers were nowhere to be found. Darcy had been rummaging around in the kitchen cabinets in search of something more appetizing than another toaster pastry, and had finally settled on the leftover breakfast casserole Clint had made a day or two ago, when a noise like a polite cough caught her attention. She looked up to see Sif standing in the doorway, looking gloriously tall and positively radiant (seriously, did Asgardians just glow or something?).

Sif, for the first time possibly ever, met her eyes steadily, and there was a confidence and a purpose there that was startling to look at, head-on.

“Lady Darcy?” she asked, and Darcy’s mouth twitched up into that bewitching smile of hers, the one that promised playful and clever banter.

In a flash, the smile gentled into an expression of utmost sincerity. “Darcy,” she replied, the warmth in her grin filling the space between them, “just Darcy, is good.”

“Sif,” she countered, leaning ever so slightly forward into the room. “May I…?” her question trailed off.

“Please,” Darcy replied immediately, a look of genuine pleasure crossing her face. “Want some coffee?” she offered. “I was just about to make some.”

“I would,” Sif answered, a slight flush gracing her high cheekbones. “Thank you,” she finished, before taking her previous seat at the little table.

“You know,” Darcy said conversationally, flicking the switch as she finished filling the coffee pot, “that asking someone if they want to ‘have coffee’ can also mean something else?”

“Oh?” Sif asked.

“Yeah,” Darcy said, leaning back against the counter, “something much more...intimate.”

The blush on Sif’s cheeks deepened, but her eyes never left Darcy’s. “Was that,” she hazarded, “a warning?”

“An offer,” Darcy responded, “if you like.”  
  
In one graceful movement, Sif knelt on the floor in front of her, extending her long arm to take Darcy’s small, unresisting hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, she brought it to her lips, and laid a delicate kiss between the first and second knuckle.

“Promises, promises,” came Darcy’s sing-song reply, just before the coffee machine beeped. “But, maybe,” she purred, lifting her hand as Sif stood up in the same fluid motion, “actual coffee first?”

“As you wish,” Sif affirmed, pulling out a chair for Darcy as she poured them each a cup.

• • • – – – • • •

_Epilogue_

Darcy and Sif gazed at each other, hands lightly touching. They had already made and finished a second breakfast, the dishes were clean and the room was filled with a decadent aroma as they lingered over their coffee.

With barely a sound, one of the panels in the ceiling slid open, revealing a miniature grappling hook, which began inching slowly towards the coffee pot.  
  
"Barton or Barnes, whichever one of you is skulking around up there, I assure you that we're both armed and it really isn't worth your time,” Darcy called up, never once looking up from Sif's face.  
  
"Aww, coffee, noooo..." came the sad reply from above.


End file.
